


Dragonfly

by aflaminghalo



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflaminghalo/pseuds/aflaminghalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his life, he’s never had enough. Never even had nearly enough. Excess isn’t something he’s comfortable with, unless it’s in violence, which is the one thing he knows he'll never run out of. But to waste this feeling, that would be a sin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragonfly

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2015.   
> I have a terrible time titling things, but I was listening to Feeling Good by Nina Simone, so that's that.

Sometimes, he thinks, there’s a part of him that’s ready for the day to be over. For school to be done, and his homework, which he never did before – and ok, he never really did school before either; and eating dinner at the table in the dining room that’s so long it feels like he’s eating alone, even though he can see Bruce, if he squints, sat at the other end of it. And seeing the people he has to see, as Bruce Wayne’s smiling new child. Even patrol. Especially, sometimes, patrol; which is the thing he loves more than anything now – being given permission to beat people up; and training, real training, that lets him do it better - and a reason to do it. Which he knows is kind of a lie, sometimes, when it’s just low level guys. The ones he knows it doesn’t really do much in the long run, to hurt, except maybe have them pass a beating on to someone else that can’t defend themselves either. And sometimes it makes it better; being able to stand over some scum like he’s got a flaming sword in his hand, and Bruce’s own big hand on his shoulder telling him “Good, kid.”

But sometimes, still, he’s ready for it to be over. He gets tired now, in ways he never was before when it was just him and he was really always kind of tired. But he eats proper food now, and sleeps in a proper bed, with a mattress that doesn’t dig into his soft spots, and isn’t only marginally more comfortable than the floor, and pillows that are so soft and full that they puff up around the sides of his head. And the sheets... 

The sheets. 

Alfred had told him once that it was the thread count, and reeled off a number that he knew enough to be impressed by even if he hadn’t understood it. Thread count became his new religion. When he got into bed of a night, aching and dog tired, he could bundle himself up in it, rolling the sheets around himself like a nest or a cocoon, and in the morning he’d wake and... He didn’t want to say they had regenerating properties, but he’d seen enough weird shit to definitely think it was possible. And he’d never had the experience before, of waking in the morning, with the sheets sliding across his body; warm, and clean smelling, and knowing that it was going to be the same the next morning, and the one after that. 

He always wakes up early, no matter how late he’s gone to bed. He can’t help that. The old reasons no longer apply, but there are new ones. The silence of the house still unnerves him; the height of the ceilings, the size of the windows and all the light they’re designed to let in. Maybe they’re not things he’ll ever be comfortable with. But he wakes and he knows Alfred won’t come to make him dress and come down for breakfast for ages. He knows he’s getting breakfast. And it’s plenty of time. And he feels good. 

All his life, he’s never had enough. Never even had nearly enough. Excess isn’t something he’s comfortable with, unless it’s in violence, which is the one thing he knows he’ll never run out of. But to waste this feeling, to waste it by holding it away, that would be a sin. 

And he loves the feel of the sheets. When the sun lights the room and casts hot little slices over him. When he’s warm and rested. When he can just roll his hips into the bed, his bed, his ridiculous bed that can fit ten people in it, and the sheets slide against him softer than anything he’s touched in his life. He can slide his shorts off underneath the sheets, kick them away and stretch his arms out, press his body into the warm and cold spots, and feel the cotton caressing every inch of him, like he’s being held in a giant’s hand. He won’t touch himself, not properly, not yet. When no one’s pushing him, watching him, trying to make him more, or less, or better, when all he’s got is himself and the bed and a meal and clean clothes coming. That’s luxury, that’s more than he ever wished for in his life, and he never wants that to end. 

And he’s going to wring out every last drop of it that he can.


End file.
